


Mean Time

by ConstanceCream



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Coping, Gen, POV Alternating, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceCream/pseuds/ConstanceCream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This time it was different.</i><br/><i>This time his heart had a limp.</i><br/> <br/>After the Fall John is dissecting his memories.<br/>In the meantime <i>he</i> is watching from afar.<br/>And comes to very different conclusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been betaed by the awesome SwissMiss.  
> Thank you so much for your huge efforts, and the encouragement you gave me!  
> Any remaining errors are entirely mine.

**Week One**

 

This time it was different.

 

He didn't redevelop his psychosomatic limp. His leg was still fine. He would almost have preferred it. Something else to worry about. He even went to see his therapist once more, asking her for an explanation.

 

"You need to get it out."

 

He really did try. He needed any help he could get, even from his therapist. He wouldn't get over it, this time. He knew.

He struggled, finally choking out _his_ name. Speaking that one monstrous sentence aloud was already too much. He broke.

 

Closing his eyes, he was back. Watching his inner movie. Couldn't let go. Took his time... Lived through it one more time.

NO.

 

Too many strangers had been muckraking, lately. He desperately clung to his memories. He wouldn't sell them to his therapist for these meagre breadcrumbs of a little peace of mind. His memories were all that remained. Sharing them would mean transforming them. Changing them into something perhaps more healthy. Changing them, getting over them, losing them.

 

'No.'

 

He could not share his memories of their last day.

He would not let _him_ go one more time.

He. Would. Not. Lose _him._

 

He would keep their story inside, even if it tore him to pieces.

Last time his life had been in pieces. This time it was his heart.

 

"Sorry. I can't."

 

Why were there no visible signs to deal with? 

'Ask a question to distract her.' In the end he felt worse.

As he had half expected, she could not provide him any conclusive explanations.

"Your subconscious doesn't work that way,"was all she could offer.

'Obviously,' he thought, immediately flinching, ... feeling reminded of _him_.

 

He never wanted to talk to her again. After all, she was no good, he had been told from the beginning: "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round."

 

Mycroft Holmes could see through everyone only five minutes after he made their acquaintance.

He could ask him about this bloody not-limping leg. Mycroft would know why. Hadn't he known the reason for his tremor instantly, back then at their first meeting in that dodgy warehouse?

He intended to never speak to him again in the future, come what may!

Seeing through people gives you certain responsibilities, he believed.

 

Having a brother who was supposed to be the British government did not automatically prove to be an advantage. In fact, it had led to a disastrous outcome. He had never quite come to terms with that man, never been able to fully comprehend the brothers' relationship.

 

He had finally labelled it as sibling rivalryand tried to ignore the subtle threat he always associated with Mycroft.

Over time he had almost convinced himself that the man wasn't that bad.

After all, hadn't John been told that Mycroft was constantly worrying about his little brother?

So he tried to appease his doubts regarding Mycroft, repeatedly.

 

The disaster had proven him wrong. Now he saw the" _arch-enemy"_ in him again. John fully blamed him for sacrificing his brother on the altar of his own selfish ambitions.

 

And Mycroft never denied it, never defended his betrayal.

There were times he truly hated the man with a vengeance.

 

Mycroft had been the one to go to the mortuary in order to identify the corpse. Mycroft had arranged the funeral.

That's what relatives were supposed to do, and John even hated him for that. For having the stamina to go through all of it without any visible signs of grief, whereas he himself was hardly able to struggle through his days.

 

"You're in shock," she told him.

Not the blanket type of shock that leaves you shivering and shaking with cold.

This went deeper, would take longer, she said.

"Take your time. Get over it, heal. You need to talk about it."

 

He couldn't. All he could do in those early days was fight back the ache.

He hurt so deep inside that every breath took an effort.

 

He had always been a man of action, a soldier. All he ever wanted to do was move, find a solution, find a way out. Anything but accept a hopeless situation. Anything but give in.

When he finally had been forced to come to terms with being retired because of a psychosomatic limp, and a tremor in his left hand that would forever deter him from performing surgery, he had met the challenge and faced civilian life. Still the soldier, all limping and trembling, but never giving up.

 

He had struggled to get over his nightmares, found himself a flat-share and a proper job so that he could afford his rent. He had fought hard.

That was how he wanted to be seen.

 

But if he was honest, he had to admit that he hadn't been able to clear up the mess his life had been on his own. It had only become better after he had met _him._

With _him_ life suddenly was exciting again. He could simply forget about the past, about his disabilities... and that was when they suddenly vanished into thin air.

Life had him back.

 

Now he saw everything shattered within less than two years, again.

 

He could no longer fight back.

This time it was different.

This time his heart had a limp.

 

He could not move on.

He didn't know which direction he should turn. There was no way out.

 

Forty-six minutes later he rose from his chair. The session was done. He would not see his therapist again. Therapy was over.

No use for her to poke around inside his skull.

He wouldn't allow her to drag anything out. His memories were all that remained.

And he wouldn't share them.

 

The days went by in a haze.

 _"It's all a bit of a blur_. _"_

 

**Week Two**

 

It was the funeral that ended his lethargy.

 

Seeing Mycroft again was like a punch in the face.

Later he realised that his reaction was fairly predictable, but that day he felt so overwhelmed with impotent rage, he could hardly contain himself.

 

He longed for his gun.

That was what kept him upright, what prevented him from drowning in tears.

Clench your jaw or crumble in front of them all. Not that too many people cared to attend _his_ funeral at all.

 

 _"I don't have friends."_ How right _he_ had been.

 

Of course Molly was there, stone silent with an agitated expression on her face.

Funny, he thought... he would have expected her to indulge in a more weeping, wet sort of mourning.

 

Mrs Hudson made up for that, sniffing and snuffling, red-rimmed eyes telling the tale of the past week.

He didn't care for the sympathetic glances they gave him, didn't want their compassion.

 

Lestrade looked deranged, twinge of conscience clearly gnawing at him. He could hardly look him in the eyes.

'Better this way,' he thought. Someday he would certainly give him a mouthful, he promised himself.

 

What kept him going through the ordeal was nothing but his bloody-minded determination.

He saw clearly what he was supposed to do with the rest of his miserable life:

'Go and find whoever is responsible for _his_ death.'

'Punish them.'

 

Crying, weeping was for later, silently, alone.

 

First he had to find the culprit.

The thoughts of a soldier.

 

Reality seemed worlds apart.

 

He could never recall how he crept home that day.

He found himself in the shower crying out loud in agony, sniffing back his snot, wishing the water pouring over him could wash away his despair as easily as it did the physical detritus of his grief.

 

Then he went silent again, seeing no use in all this bluster.

 _"Think!"_ he could hear _him_ say.

 

And so he sat down in his armchair, barefoot, damp hair, staring into the void, face to face with an abandoned seat. Trying desperately to ignore it. Shutting off the image of the other  man in his typical exaggerated pose.

Perched on his chair, hands clasped under _his_ chin.

Contracting _his_ limbs in order to concentrate _his_ thoughts.

 

So, Mycroft had given his brother's secrets away.

There was simply no way to justify it.

Had it prevented something like the start of World War III?

 

Not the big issues, then. They had been widely known. Even the police had been well informed about _his_ promiscuous drug consumption.

'Must have been the small details, weaknesses, events in his past even I don't know anything about,' he guessed.

 

_"He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you tell a big lie."_

 

It would have been easy to fool the public, subtly sowing doubts by wrapping up lies in established facts. Creating a fabric so tightly woven, only very few people would be able to tell the right from the wrong threads.

 

True, _he_ had been obsessively proud of his achievements, radiating pleasure over every solved case. But all that had ever mattered to _him_ had been _his_ work, not the people _he_ helped thereby.

True, _he_ had seemed to become increasingly intrigued by the idea of being the focus of people's interest. That had been a direct result of John's blog.

Despite _his_ perpetual nagging _he_ seemed to have enjoyed the regard of the public.

 

Yet, hadn't John time and again complained about the fact that _he_ didn't seem to care enough about what people might say? How often had _his_ bored indifference annoyed him to no end?

_"I don't understand - why would it upset you?"_

 

It was simply out of character for _him_ to be bothered too much by libel and slander.

 

Statements like _"Of course. I_ am _a show-off"_ in the presence of a client, or _"I don't care what people think"_ certainly did not come from a man with low self-esteem.

 _"Why is it always the hat photograph?"_ He had been arrogant, even vain, but certainly not troubled with public opinion.

Completely oblivious, never caring how to behave himself with journalists, _he_ wouldn't have given a fuck what they scribbled in their damned papers.

 

 _He_ was easily infuriated, never intimidated.

 

This conspiracy, sophisticated as it was, could never have provoked the collapse.

If anybody could have, _he_ would have sorted it out!

 _'Nobody could be that clever.' -_ 'You could.'  - Still his firm belief.

 

Had _he_ ever resigned? Had _he_ ever given a case up as a lost cause?

 _He_ had not even tried this time. Had done nothing in the first place to wash clear _his_ name.

That was so very unlike _him._

 _He_ should have swirled through the city like a whirlwind, flying high on _his_ own brilliance.

 

Something very different had been going on, John felt sure all of a sudden.

 

Coming to this conclusion, he grudgingly had to admit that, bad as it was, Mycroft and his betrayal could hardly be the real reason for the catastrophe.

These nights he cried himself to sleep, no bullet for Mycroft.

No penance.

 

No peace of mind for himself.

 

**Week Three**

 

A new routine in life. His new dedication. Sitting in his chair brooding, day after day.

 

Of course there had always been Moriarty.

Easy to blame a dead man.

 

Moriarty had long since been known to be the criminal mastermind behind this conspiracy. It had been obvious that his sinister game had but one destination: the total distraction of the one man who was his intellectual equal. He had planned and carried out every detail of his assault so minutely that there had not been any chance to escape his spider's web, it seemed.

 

And yet, he had been the one who in the end had blown his head away on that rooftop.

He had died first.

That was a fact.

 

There had never been the slightest doubt that the man had shot himself.

Even without the help of a consulting detective, Anderson and his team could not have misinterpreted the mess they found up there. The evidence they turned over to the forensic doctor on duty clearly said suicide.

 

Lestrade had told him, under the pledge of secrecy.

Lestrade seemed to be troubled enough these days. No use in pestering him any further.

 

Of course the inspector had been in the dark about the why. He had never been in the know, he certainly was not in this case.

One could almost feel sorry for him...

"How will you ever manage without _him_?" he couldn't restrain himself from saying.

"Perhaps you should have thought about it beforehand. Wasn't too clever to turn your back on someone you need so desperately, was it?"

 

He regretted his lack of self-control immediately.

Lestrade knew for himself that the incidents of that dreadful night had ended his career.

Yet John could not feel sorry for him.

He was too cold inside.

 

They had come to question him as a witness.

They had found _his_ phone up there.

 

He had watched _him_ as he lowered his arm and dropped it on the roof.

He could still see the picture in slow motion when he closed his eyes. He still saw _him_ holding out _his_ hand...

He could hear himself cry out _his_ name... loud!

Desperate!

He had to shout so that _he_ could hear him, ... _he_ had dropped _his_ phone...

 

'No.'

 

They had found John's was the last number _he_ had dialled.

The time matched the events up on the roof. They needed to make sure that Moriarty had not forced _him_ to jump at gunpoint, so they said. Needed to confirm that "Richard Brook" had shot himself first.

'They're actually calling him "Richard Brook", can you believe it?' He giggled, hysterically.

 

They could now prove that "Richard Brook" was not a murderer.

 

Two suicides.

As to the reasons they could only speculate.

 

"But we all knew the Freak, didn't we?"

He could have killed Sally Donovan for that one.

 

He had grown stone-cold after that comment. Had confirmed their expectations.

Yes, he had received _his_ last call; yes, _he_ had clearly been alone up there; no, nobody had attacked _him_.

 

They did not dare to ask him what _he_ had said.

He would never have told them.

 

**Week Four**

 

He went home.

To do his thinking.

He knew quite well that he could never know what really happened between those two men on that dreadful morning. He would never be able to deduce which direction their conversation had taken.

 

Knowing them both he had to admit that they had in certain ways been equals.

 

Like two sides of one coin, completely opposite, never touching and yet so close to each other.

Both preoccupied with crime, both burning for their professions, both strange kinds of lunatics, standing outside society, never taking no for an answer.

Both genial in their ways, never to be compared to ordinary minds.

He felt he could never speculate what had driven them that day.

 

Moriarty was not his concern, but never in his life would John believe that _he_ had even considered throwing his life away due to the gossip of that petty lot.

 

Why had _he_ not struggled to find a way out?

Why had _he_ not even tried? And the one question, over and over again:

Why had _he_ sent John away in the first place?

 

 _"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,"_ he could still hear _him_ say.

He wanted to scream at that.

 

Had _he_ really, for once in _his_ life miscalculated?

 

How far could he trust _him_?

 

This was different.

 

These questions were different.

They led him onto dangerous ground. 

Had danger ever stopped him?

 

Something had happened up there. Moriarty's plan had backfired.

So why did _he_ jump?

 

John refused to accept that it was the only way out for such a proper genius.

There was always another way.

He couldn't kill himself now, much as he felt like it, could he?

 

Ah, yes, this had been _him_ all over, feeling thrilled by the hazards, indulging in danger, not bored for once.

 

Is there a difference between swallowing a poisoned pill and jumping from a hospital roof?

 

Obviously, this was much more elaborate, highly sophisticated. That went perfectly with a man who always had to impress the world with _his_ floating coat and waving curls.

So, once again, just one last time?

 

 _"Wrong, wrong deduction."_ Anger and cynicism didn't gain him any peace of mind.

Instead his limping heart moved on firmly and steadily in the opposite direction.

 

For on whom had this arrogant, cool-looking-coat-collar-up-impressive-cheekbones-front-I'm-always-in-control-of-the-world _-_ genius relied more and more in these last one and a half years?

 

Since shooting the cabbie that night, he had felt an ever stronger bond growing between them.

How else could he explain this loss he felt, how else could this hurt so much?

 

**Week Five**

 

And it did hurt. There were days he could hardly get up in the morning, faced with his now empty life.

 

He trotted to work and back, no longer speaking to anybody, did the shopping, did the cleaning, paid the rent, ate, drank, sent himself to bed, could not sleep.

 

Then there were days when the ever good soldier he still was promised himself that he would finally find a target to focus his wrath on, find the culprit, punish him and then move on.

 

**Week Six**

 

Realisation was creeping in subtly, hardly noticeable at first. Like cancer silently infiltrating healthy flesh, his thinking became contaminated by the weight of his own guilt. He had long ago heard the whispers of his own conscience.

 

The foggier his vision of the events after the fall became, the more clearly could he remember every conversation on their last day together.

 

He still winced each time he allowed himself to look back on their last dispute at the laboratory.

His outburst, due to wrung out nerves, exhaustion, lack of food and sleep, was nevertheless unforgivable.

 

"You machine!" he had shouted furiously.

And then colder, resigned, ...worse...

" _Friends_ protect people."

 

Knowing what he did now, they were the most cynical words he could possibly have spoken.

How self-righteous, how pathetic.

 

Aside from that, how had _he_ managed to outsmart him time and again?

Why had he failed to notice that morning? Futile regrets, now.

 

As a friend he should have known _his_ ways better, should have realised the phone call was fake, should have thought twice.

'Accuse _him_ of not caring for Mrs Hudson!'

'I mean honestly, Mrs Hudson of all people!' How could he be so blind?

He should have become suspicious, should have known _him_ better, should have trusted in _his_ heart.

Who on earth should have known _he_ had one, if not him?

Even Moriarty had known _him_ better, it seemed.

 _He_ would never have allowed _his_ landlady to be harmed.

 

Turn around, slam the door, leave your so-called friend to die.

 

Cry. Out. In. Pain.

 

And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

He had been trying to train _him_ in the art of human sentiments these last few months, yet he himself had overlooked the signs.

 

_"Can't you see what's going on?"_

He couldn't that night, ...as always.

 

He had obviously underestimated the stress the man had been under since Moriarty had emerged again.

 

"I know you're real." His affirmation had not convinced _him_.

 

 _"A hundred percent?"_ The piercing look _he_ had given him, desperately trying to find out how deep his confidence in _him_ had actually been.

 

Not deep enough, he knew now.

 

Calling _him_ an "annoying dick" in reply had helped him to get over his own awkward feelings...

It had definitely eased the tension, suddenly much too tangible.

It might even have produced a quick smirk on _his_ face.

 

But it had certainly not been the answer a friend in need required.

Failure.

Excerpt from the manual 'How to Let Down Your Friend.'

 

In retrospect it had always been himself who had wiped away the faintest hint of mutual belonging with his constant sarcasm, sometimes with open ridicule.

These sorts of comments had long since become a kind of established tradition on his part.

From their first day to their last he had constantly disowned _him_. Always, almost too vehemently, denied any relationship between them, except for being random flatmates.

 

"I'm not his date", "colleague", not friend; the list went on, indefinitely.

Much more concerned about the fact that "people might talk", desperately trying to convince the world that no, he was "not actually gay!"

 

What he would give now to be able to apologise.

'Sorry' would never be enough.

 

The Woman had not been so wrong after all.

They had been a couple, sort of.

 

 _"... my hostage!" he_ had improvised that night.

"Hostage! Yes, that works - that works!" was his reply. And shortly afterwards, when _he_ had taken his hand so that they could run faster, dragging them away from the police, again he could not help but ridicule their situation.

 

_"Take my hand!"_

'Grab him.'

'Run with _him_ to the end of the world.'

 

"Now people will _definitely_ talk!"

 

 _He_ had never replied, not that night, not on other occasions.

 _He_ had hardly ever reacted.

 

Had he ever wondered what this man might have felt, being rejected by him numerous times? Probably not.

Now he would gladly give his damned no-longer-limping leg, just to tell _him_ how wrong he had been.

 

"Freak!"

"Weirdo!"

With everybody constantly prodding and nagging at him about how hellish living with his insane flatmate must be, he slipped up time and again.

 

Had he ever wondered what was wrong with himself?

What had made him the man he had become?

He'd rather push those notions aside.

 

He was much too preoccupied with watching _him_ solving his crimes and  blogging about it.

In the company of this incredible man, he could enjoy the distractions this dangerous city provided. Only since he knew _him_ had he been able to banthe demons of his past which haunted him.

He had been healed from his sufferings...

 

Yet instead of paying _him_ back with real friendship, he had only occasionally offered a weak "well, ... I'm never bored" to _his_ brother and a bleeding nose for Lestrade's boss.

 

'Hypocrite!'

He could slap himself for all his lectures about caring and sentiment.

Who had probably cared more: the one who was always so concerned about his fellow citizens, or the one who had learned from an early age that caring was not an advantage?

 

Realisation drove him almost over the edge.

His culprit:

'Me.'

 

He. Had. Failed. _Him_.

 

And he could never tell _him_.

So many things unspoken...

 

**Week Seven**

 

This was when he finally faced what was left to do.

 

It wasn't as heroic or as dramatic as he would have wished, but grand gestures had never been his area.

He wasn't the type to commit a spectacular suicide, creating some broken-heart style headline for the yellow press.

He wasn't even the type to run amok, although shooting half of the New Scotland Yard staff did indeed appeal to him.

 

But he had a backbone, and if he had to soldier on, stumbling through the rest of his fucked up life, he now had to sort things out.

 

However, he made one mistake.

He never could recall when or why he had told Mrs Hudson that he was ready, finally...

He certainly regretted it when she asked him to take her along. As much as he liked her, it was hard for him to put up with her constant chatter these days.

He knew she just wanted to cheer him up during the cab ride, but right now he was hardly in the mood to acknowledge her brave attempts to banter about the havoc his ex-flatmate had constantly wreaked.

Thank God, she finally sensed his need to be alone at last.

 

Alone, with only an impersonal tombstone that did not arouse any memories of their past to distract him.

 

He attended to his duty.

 

At last he told _him_ that _he_ had been the best man, and the most human ... human being he had ever known, and that no one would ever convince him that _he_ told him a lie.

"I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much."

 

He could never quite grasp afterwards what had driven him.

 

It would have humiliated him to the core had anybody been witness to his pathetically spluttered entreaty, desperately begging for one more miracle.

"Don't ...be...dead." His voice broke. "Would you do...?Just for me, just stop it." He gestured towards the grave. "Stop this."

 

He knew this was insane, but somehow it had just at that moment begun to dawn on him that perhaps, only perhaps, it might have actually been his mind which was suffering from a limp....

As always, several steps behind.

 

Weren't there too many inconsistencies, puzzles only _he_ could have come up with?

Had he not been amazed by _him_ from the beginning?

Had he not once seen a woman fake her own death?

 _He_ had always played the sentiments of others like _he_ used to play his violin, intuitively but brilliantly.

 

He needed so desperately to believe in something.

He had failed _him_ once, and look at them both! He would not let _him_ down another time!

It might be too late, but deep in his heart he suddenly found that John Watson still believed in Sherlock Holmes...

 

He knew this was insane.

For God's sake, he was a doctor!

He had seen enough people die, thank you, enough for a lifetime, far too many.

 

He had been there, he had seen _him_ fall.

The shattered body, blood all over the pavement.

He had looked into _his_ eyes, staring up to the sky, broken, empty.

Not. Seeing.

He had taken his pulse.

Gone.

 

He had seen death before, he had been well schooled in this.

 

But for all that, something felt ... _wrong_.

 

It was almost as if he could again sense _his_ analysing gaze at his back.

Feel _his_ presence once again.

 

It felt surreal.

But he had nourished his doubts long enough.

 

He believed in _him_ , he always had, always would.

 

His friend Sherlock Holmeswas still there.

 

**Weeks. Months. Years.**

 

From that day on it was different.

 

His heart at least had found its crutches.

 

Every now and then he could feel _his_ presence.

Not often, not always as strong as the first time, in the cemetery, patting a tombstone goodbye.

 

But who knew, perhaps _he_ was watching him from afar?


	2. Chapter 2

**Week Seven**

**Afternoon**

 

As soon as he left the cemetery the black car approached. Reluctantly, he stepped closer, opened the door and got in. He settled back with a sigh, steepled fingers under his chin. Automatic posture when concentrating.

 

This had not exactly been easy.

It had not been what he expected.

This had been worse.

 

For God's sake, what had he been thinking?

 

Everything seemed to slip between his fingers these days. His calculations had not quite worked out the way they were supposed to.

 

He would have welcomed some exercise right now, stretching his legs, perhaps. He had been imprisoned for far too long, and of course his prison warden had made sure that he couldn't escape the watchdog in his limousine, as always.

Had he ever dreamt of a day when he would actually feel the need for fresh air and and a beam of sunlight? How mundane!

 

But, bad as it was, he knew well enough that this wasn't his main problem right now.

Nothing but idle thoughts to distract him from the agonising scene he had just witnessed.

The vision would haunt him forever.

 

His "foolish excursion" had left him with a bitter aftertaste. What a smart-arse he was, his brother... 'You could have foreseen this, couldn't you?' A wry look, evaluating. Then smiling, sourly, what a stale triumph!

 

He knew exactly that all he wanted right now was to run like hell, just to escape his bothersome thoughts.

 

Not possible. Self-induced.

'Think it through, then delete it,' he told himself.

 

But he wouldn't.

Not right now, when closing his eyes felt like burning inside, and instead of soothing blackness he clearly saw the picture of one _Dr John H. Watson_... Trying to keep _himself_ upright, failing, falling apart...

 

'Store it in your mind palace, think later.'

Perhaps this would be easier from a distance.

 

He should have known that _John_ , always so preoccupied with his _sentiment thing_ , would not take it easily.

But this?

'What had happened to _him_?'

 

Was _he_ ill?

Was _he_ perhaps suffering from a wasting disease that nobody had told him about?

It was necessary that he should know, he had insisted on being kept informed!

Nobody had told him that things were in such a bad way.

'Face it,'  he scolded himself. That _John_ was in such a bad way.

 

He raised his head, cleared his throat, straightened his facial features.

No use in displaying his dismay too overtly. Even this watchdog driver could collect data and impart it to his employer. Straightening up inside, however, turned out to be a much more intricate problem.

 

He stared out the window, trying to concentrate on the world outside.

'Boring.' Nothing to absorb his confused thoughts.

 

'Stupid, stupid!' He had so many pressing challenges waiting for him!

Why could he not simply concentrate?

But whatever tasks he tried to focus on, his mind was constantly digressing.

 

_John_ had clearly lost weight! 4.25 pounds at least.

Due to the weight loss _his_ face looked more wrinkled than ever. Circumorbital rings and lacrimal sacs clearly indicated a severe lack of sleep. Plus an overall radiation of strain to be deduced from _his_ physical tension, obviously visible in every movement. All together this meant _John_ had reached a highly dangerous level of exhaustion, both physically and mentally.

 

_John_ must not break down!

 

He suddenly felt like using one of his former flatmate's preferred swear words.

Of course he didn't.

 

'Illiterate. Useless.'

That was exactly how he felt right now: 'Impotent.'

 

What had he done? - Yet...What else could he have done?

 

With time as limited as it had been, he could hardly have worked out a more elaborate plan.

It had been unpleasant, admittedly, but it had served its purpose. His nemesis was dead, he himself and the people he intended to protect were not.

'Objective achieved.'

 

But as things go in life, somebody had to pay the price.

He hadn't calculated with the payer being his former flatmate.

 

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." So he had been told.

"They all care so much."

 

_John_ had cared, too much. Now _he_ had hit rock bottom.

He should have known.

 

And there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

In fact, given the same situation again, he would act in the same manner.

It had been cruel, but it was definitely safer for all persons involved.

 

Actually, there were already too many people who knew too much, for his taste...

 

_John_ was reliable to the core. _He_ had committed his life to him numerous times, since the night with the cabbie. _He_ was absolutely sincere and always straightforward, unlike himself, he had to admit. But that was the point, to be honest.

_John_ was no great actor, and had _he_ had the faintest idea, all of his elaborate plans would have become vulnerable.

 

Lives end. Hearts are broken. That's what hearts do.

It was for _John's_ own good, he told himself.

 

But.

He had seen _him_.

 

'Stop it.' 

 

_John_ would cope, _he_ would soldier on, _he_ was strong! Had _he_ not invaded Afghanistan?

_"That wasn't just me," he_ had corrected him.

Now _he_ was all on his own again. And he looked even worse than the short, ex-army doctor with a trembling left hand, determinedly limping through London, whom he had met back then.

 

He had seen _him._

_He_ was coming apart at the seams.

 

This was not logical.

For God's sake, _John_ was a doctor!

 

_He_ had found a proper job again, _he_ would most certainly be able to afford Mrs Hudson's rent on _his_ own now. _He_ had colleagues. _John_ madefriends with other people easily, didn't _he_?

What about all those mates _John_ used to meet at the pub?

What about all _his_ dates _he_ always loved to boast about?

Why, _he_ had even invited them home! Every now and then, Sherlock had been forced to stumble across one of _John's_ recent acquaintances when returning to 221B after a tedious investigation. He couldn't even bring himself to bother with their names...

 

_He_ did have a social life, _John_ had pointed out on one of these rare occasions Sherlock had dared to so much as complain.

_"At least I could have one, if you would not go and spoil everything from the start, every time I try to get off with a woman!"_ he could still hear _him_ shouting. _”I'm going to be forty in no time and I really think I should at least try and settle down! It has never been my aim in life to be called a 'confirmed old bachelor' by these scandalmongers. Do you even read the papers, sod it?!"_

 

It had not hurt, that one, not really...

 

For _John,_ life meant more than chasing around London, always running after criminals.

It meant more than having belated dinners in the early morning hours at Angelo's with _his_ freakish flatmate who could only eat after he had successfully solved a case. Never during work. Ever...

 

Right then, _he_ had his beer drinking pals and _his_ Sarahs and Jeanettes, why would _he_ look so upset?

_John_ was no longer alone, now, was _he?_

 

'Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!'

 

He had known _John_ wouldn't take it easily, but this was different.

 

He had always known that _John_ cared for him.

_He_ could go on about it for hours if Sherlock had not been able to eat properly for days while on a case...

Even if he told _him_ that it really didn't matter, that all that mattered to him was his brain!

It was not _his_ fault.

_He_ was just so pedestrian that _he_ couldn't understand that Sherlock could only eat when he was at ease, when his mind was calm. He would rather ignore a rumbling stomach than waste time or energy on it that would be better spent on the case.

 

Information, details, clues were what he craved in those moments, revealing invisible connections, catching a glimpse of the faintest evidence, fitting them together in a novel constellation, so that in the end he was the only one to see the truth. Solving crimes fed his brain. And that was so much superior to securing his transport.

 

_John_ had never accepted that, being the good doctor _he_ was.

_"No brain without a body, idiot!"_ _he_ used to reply almost affectionately.

_"Drink your tea."_

 

What had he been thinking?

 

He had lived with this man for eighteen months.

In fact, _John_ had endured his company longer than anybody else had, ever, ...voluntarily...

 

In the beginning he had tried to unsettle _him,_ experimenting with _John's_ capacity to endure his odd nature. He had always known that he was different from ordinary people. Superior. But, to his surprise, so was _John_!

 

Oh, no, nobody would call _John_ a genius, not even a lunatic, although some of them seriously doubted _his_ sanity when _he_ moved in with Sherlock Holmes. To all the world _he_ was just a nice mate, a good doctor, another ordinary bloke. All of them, with their funny little brains, why could they just not see, how special _he_ was?

 

_He_ was different in so many fascinating ways! Sherlock never grew tired of studying _his_ reactions.

_John_ could live with bullet holes in the living room wall, _he_ could live with various parts of the human body in various places in _his_ kitchen, which was actually Sherlock's laboratory, to be honest! As long as _he_ could help himself to a cup of tea, _he_ seemed to come to terms with anything Sherlock said or did.

 

Sometimes _he_ would disappear, if Sherlock went too far, when he ran riot again, but _he_ never left him alone, _he_ never left for good.

 

Over the last eighteen months _he_ had always been with him.

He had grown accustomed to the sensation of having a companion.

He had grown used to _him,_ had slowly dared to build his life around _him_. Began to feel comfortable in _his_ company, dared to relax, even enjoyed their mutual lives, well, most of the time...

 

"Piss off" had never come from _John, he_ had always admired his abilities, blithely ignoring other people's whispers. _He_ was the only person apart from himself who had ever spoken out loud and clear how "extraordinary", how "amazing" he was! _He_ had, at times, seen the good man in him already.

 

How disappointed _he_ had looked, when Sherlock had told _him_ that he was not a hero. _John_ was a man who would believe in heroes... 

 

In the weeks leading up to his 'suicide', he had found out that he liked it better when they were in sync.

When _John_ did one of _his_ conductor-of-light-things only _he_ could do.

When he had to admit he needed _him._

Then he felt something he had never felt for another person before.

 

Trust. Friendship. ...Perhaps more? ...Love?

 

They had never touched on that subject, though....

But he was absolutely certain  that _John_ had once and for all accepted him the way he was. 

 

_He_ had never failed him.

_He_ would be there for him.

The tiniest smirk flickered over his face.

 

He did feel sorry down to his bones for _John_ , but at the same time he had to monitor the absurdly discombobulating sensation, creeping up warm inside his chest, every time he thought about this inexplicable man.

 

Thinking about the future was certainly less pleasant.

Would he eventually be able to return home some day?

 

Until this afternoon he had never doubted that this was his route.

He had not deliberately hurt _John_. He had been forced to!

After all he had had to deal with none less than James Moriarty!

 

But finding _John_ as he had today, he honestly wondered if the man would ever take him back.

If _John_ could ever forgive his betrayal.

 

Something to worry about for the times to come.

 

For now, he could do little else than store all his newly collected data about hisfriend in the special room called _John_ inside his mind palace.

 

But he left a mental note on the door that read:

'Care for him, make sure that nothing harms him any further.'

'Return as soon as possible!'

 

Right at the moment, he had to face the fact that he would be eye to eye with his arch-enemy in exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes, if the man didn't delay London rush-hour traffic further by deliberately starting some minor war...

 

**Late Afternoon**

 

David Cameron slammed the door in annoyance.

 

If they had told him that he would have less power in his present occupation than a caretaker at a primary school, he would have packed it in!

In fact he could do now!

He wouldn't, anyway, ...but the man behind the door, brooding in his office, could well become his coffin nail, some day!

 

Like all of his fellow party members he had known him for years, and of course this had nourished his suspicions...

He would have guessed something rather obscure, ...secret service...?

 

But who'd have thought that the distinguished gentleman with his posh manners and his omnipresent umbrella was in fact the British government himself, these days?

 

He had been sent away like a schoolboy:

"Mr. Holmes has to attend to some more pressing business this afternoon,"  he had been informed by the ever-smiling assistant with the outlandish...Greek? ... What was her name?

 

Arrogant bugger!

 

**Still**

 

This would not be easy, he knew. It never was when it came to his brother.

 

All his life he had managed to become entangled in various sorts of trouble.

Even as a child he had always upset Mummy!

And from the beginning to this day he worried about him, constantly.

 

Mycroft Holmes sat at the huge conference table in his office at No.10.

Head bent, face buried in his hands, with a countenance of total defeat.

 

The last year had almost been carefree, it seemed now.

Since this Dr Watson had limped into Sherlock's life, he had been able to gradually loosen control over his brother.

He could slowly reduce his surveillance of 221B, leaving his baby brother to the care of the former army doctor.

 

Oh yes, he had been sceptical in the beginning; who would not have been, considering his brother's chosen profession and his drug-contaminated past...?

But it had taken him no time to deduce that John Watson was special, and in an almost fairytale way just perfect as a companion for Sherlock.

He could never quite lay a finger on how exactly their relationship worked.

But it did!

 

After just one case running around like madmen through the streets of London, the good doctor had already lost his psychosomatic limp.

 

The intermittent tremor in his left hand was a little bit more persistent.

It switched on and off depending on the state of John Watson's personal danger level he was living in, at any given moment. But unlike with real PTSD, which that useless therapist had diagnosed, the trembling vanished every time a situation provided the appropriate amount of danger. Thus, living with his brother had also cured that handicap, in a manner of speaking.

Sherlock supplied the doctor with enough excitement, and hence adrenaline, to forget about his ailment, rather quickly.

 

That had been a bargain as well.

Now Sherlock had a personal bodyguard who could shoot like a sniper, trained by the British military. Moreover, the man was a capable doctor and God knows, Sherlock needed one, far too many times.

 

The doctor's nightmares, however, had proven themselves a more permanent problem, but he managed well enough. Perhaps the two flatmates had come closer emotionally than they would have liked to admit? That could have helped.

The dreams would be back now, even worse...

 

Inexplicably, the two men had seemed to enjoy each other's company.

'Strange that...' Mycroft could clearly see the mutual benefits. ...'as for the rest?' he wondered.

 

He had never seen his brother, insane as he was, as relaxed as in these last eighteen months. Boyish, at times almost happy. More balanced, certainly, than he had ever witnessed him before.

 

He had been a difficult child.

Had he ever heard Sherlock laugh out loud genuinely, ... heartily?

 

Recent developments had given him the opportunity to loosen his tight grip a little.

He had hoped for Sherlock that he would seek his advice on his own account more frequently, but that had not been the case.

 

Sometimes his brother almost seemed to hate him...

 

At least Mycroft had known him in good hands.

As good as possible, considering the circumstances they all lived in.

 

Yet, in the end this strange sort of friendship had become more of a concern than any of Sherlock's cases.

Mycroft had foreseen some sort of catastrophe.

'Anyone could have seen this coming!' he thought with a frown. 

Had he not told Sherlock often enough that caring was not an advantage? 'Obviously not.'

 

His ever stubborn brother had once again preferred to find things out the hard way!

He had given his heart, head over heels, to one short, forty-year-old Dr John H. Watson.

 

He had even given up smoking, if one could imagine that!

'He would never have done anything so thoughtful for Mummy or me,' Mycroft sighed.

 

But he could tolerate this arrangement whole-heartedly, because John Watson for his part seemed not to be too responsive to the numerous changes in Sherlock's character. Seemed not to notice Sherlock's growing affection for him.

 

Perhaps he just wasn't attracted to him?

 

No, given their behaviour these last months, one could readily assume that there had been some sort of deeper relationship looming.

John Watson had probably still been struggling with the concept of his predominantly heterosexual identity.

 

And what did his brother do? Go and spoil it all with one inconsiderate move!

 

Granted, Mycroft had his part in the disaster.

In the end they could consider themselves lucky to have escaped the spider's web alive at all...

 

This Moriarty man had been a real threat.

Not only to Sherlock, but also to himself, to world peace! He had had potential.

 

So you could not deny Sherlock a certain brilliance. His little brother was in fact a proper genius...

 

But why did everything Sherlock ventured have to end in such utter chaos?

Now it was up to him once more to tidy up the mess.

 

Only today had he finally managed to ascertain without any further doubts that this consulting criminal was no more, and even better, would no longer be, in the future.

It had been more difficult than anticipated, yet nonetheless of the gravest importance.

He would not have been the first one, nor the last, to have faked his own death.

Thus, first priority on Mycroft Holmes' agenda.

 

No wonder he could not muster the stamina to bother with those petty problems David wanted to discuss earlier...

'Definitely not today!'

The man could well wait until this crisis was dealt with.

World financial systems would manage to crash without their help, he was quite positive.

 

John Watson was a more pressing problem, right now. The man was looking worse day by day...

At the funeral he still seemed to be doing quite well.

John had blamed him and seemed to be fine with his hatred. Better than having nothing to cling to, Mycroft had soothed himself. No harm done. John Watson and his gun would never get near him without his knowledge, and so any potential for damage was eliminated.

 

Several weeks later things did look different, indeed.

His surveillance had revealed a more and more unbalanced doctor.

As time passed, he seemed to be focussing his wrath increasingly at himself, which was not good.

 

Mycroft certainly not only had the power to survey but also to step in when a critical point was reached.

But he would prefer not to!

'It would be inelegant... And highly embarrassing for both sides.'

He dreaded to imagine such a scenario.

However, if need be, he would intervene. Sherlock might go berserk otherwise.

 

Living with his brother was becoming increasingly hellish, as days stretched into weeks.

He spent most of his time at No.10, and his evenings at the Diogenes Club. Trying to avoid Sherlock's company as best he could.

 

The madman's moods could vary from bursting with manic energy to depressive within a single hour! It made Mycroft feel giddy.

'How did this placid doctor ever manage to flatshare with Sherlock?' he wondered not for the first time.

 

Well, not his problem. They seemed to match, and all that mattered to him was that he could get rid of Sherlock in the near future! - Mycroft frowned.

'But honestly!' Speaking of the insanity he had insisted on committing today...

 

_"I need to go and see John!"_

 

His brother was a genuine nightmare!

 

It was his own fault...

 

Increasingly irritated with Sherlock's unruly behaviour, he had casually mentioned the doctor's determination to visit the grave... ' Very bad mistake, that...'

At first it had seemed as if Sherlock was not even paying attention. His remark had not resulted in any comment from his brother's side. He seemed to ignore it as he did almost everything Mycroft said.

 

He had been relieved.

He shouldn't have been...

 

For once Sherlock must have listened, because that very morning he had calmly informed him that he would go and see John Watson.

 

That afternoon.

He needed to.

There was no way he could keep him from doing so.

 

How on earth had he found out? Dispensable.

One look in his eyes...

Mycroft knew his brother.

 

So he had made sure that one of the black cars was waiting at his back door at the given time.

It was all he could do.

He didn't tell him to be careful. It would have done no good.

He could only hope for the best, and pray that Sherlock would not crack completely...would not ruin everything...

 

Nothing was gained, not yet. There was still a long and hazardous way to go.

 

He heaved a sigh and rose from his chair as his assistant - whose real name was not Anthea - entered the room. 

 

"Everything's fixed," she informed him. "We should be on our way by now."

 

**Evening**

 

Sherlock had been pacing back and forth through the room with increasing impatience.

 

He felt trapped like an animal in here! He didn't care for convenience or style. All he was interested in were his needs being stilled. He could not longer stay in his brother's house, hiding from the world, while outside the spider's web whose creator he had destroyed was slowly but steadily being rebuilt by his criminal remnants. There were still too many of Moriarty's partners busy with restoring his empire.

 

They had to be eliminated once and for all.

The moment had never been more opportune.

In this his brother did agree. Rare enough. There was hardly ever mutual consent between them.

 

'Mycroft...' - He did not like to think about his brother, but as things had turned out, he could not get around him for long.

 

Mycroft had always shown him his superiority.

Mycroft had always been jealous because Mummy had loved him better!

So he had bullied his little brother from the date of his birth down to the present day.

 

Sherlock hated to come to his brother with his problems, and had always tried to avoid it.

But the more details he tried to hide from him, the more Mycroft tried to stick his nose into things that were clearly not his concern.

When they were younger he had always been several steps ahead, which had left Sherlock furious with impotent rage.

 

Wasn't this his life, for God's sake?

 

The drugs had only been a logical consequence.

Sherlock took them because he wanted to escape from social constraints, from his boredom, from his brother's reproachful eyes. He could well have managed on his own, he had not been a typical addict. He was in control of his consumption! Had he at that time not already known Lestrade and helped him out with his little problems at the Yard? 

But that had only confirmed to Mycroft that his prejudices were on target...

 

And he did indeed love to be dramatic about everything.

 

'Just take his obsession with Moriarty's death, right now!' He actually stamped his foot.

His brother simply couldn't admit that Sherlock had outplayed the criminal mastermind.

Of course the man was dead! He had practically shot himself in Sherlock's arms.

But no, Mycroft had to make sure. How could he simply trust the word of his little brother?

 

But today it should be over, Mycroft had promised him this morning, today he would get his information. 

As if they hadn't known seven weeks ago...

 

Today...

"Stay, you can do nothing until we know for sure that there is no immediate danger."

"You cannot reveal yourself, you know that!"

"He wouldn't even know you're there!"

"There's no point! This is insane! Sherlock, don't go, for God's sake!"

 

He had waited for Mycroft to intervene, as _John_ had entered the stage.

Of course he had tried in the beginning.

The whole nine yards, first threatening, then bribing, followed by open derision at last.

 

But.

 

'Everything had rolled off _John,'_ he thought proudly. _He_ sustained it with a little disapproving smile.

_He_ moved calmly along his path with broad shoulders, and a straight backbone, his doctor...

 

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance.

He found himself cowering in one of those huge, tasteless armchairs of his brother's, all curled up, eyes closed, a goofy smirk plastered all over his face, dreaming of a short, blond, tired man...

 

Even Mycroft seemed to have accepted his flatmate in the end. As if _he_ had become family in some strange way.

 

This was not what he was supposed to be focussing on right now, he told himself.

But this also was _John_.

Always ready to invade his thoughts, easily undermining his self-discipline, and he actually liked it.

 

**Late Evening**

 

Then he was no longer alone. They had finally arrived. Eight minutes and forty-one seconds late.

He darted off the armchair, straightened his jacket, prepared himself.

 

"Hello, brother dear, how are you?" How he despised his drawling manner of speech.

 

He didn't even bother to answer.

 

Anthea - who actually had another name - just smiled at him, as always.

One rarely heard her speak. Perhaps he should some day find out her real name, perhaps that would elicit more than a smile from her mouth.

 

Mycroft didn't ask, so he didn't bother to tell.

He was probably already fully informed.

 

The afternoon had been an emotional minefield. He wasn't used to squandering too many thoughts on other people's feelings, ...nor on his own.

 

It had been tedious!

And things didn't seem to be improving.

Suddenly he realised how uncomfortable he felt. 'Interesting.'

 

"As I expected, I was reliably informed this morning that James Moriarty is no longer with us."

 

"Cut your sententious lecture! I told you before," he snapped. "I was there, remember?"

 

He could not care less if he was annoying the most dangerous man he had ever known, the man he had to ask for help over and over again.

 

Hard to say who suffered more from their reciprocal dependency.

 

Mycroft didn't respond, instead preferring to change the subject.

"Well, we have been through this before and I'm quite positive you are capable of recalling the details of our further procedure." Mycroft actually had the gall to smile at him.

"So, have you steeled yourself?"

 

"No need to, I have made up my mind and I have no intention to change it," he answered, trying to sound more composed than he actually felt.

 

He folded himself into the chair Anthea had prepared for him.

 

Heartbeat increased, palms sweaty, mouth dry.

No need to be a genius to deduce that he was actually nervous.

 

"The chemicals all mixed? The implements sharpened?" Mycroft asked with his most amiable voice.

Sherlock had always suspected that his brother was a sadist.

 

Anthea had nothing but an angelic smile in return.

When she started he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what she was doing to him.

 

By the time she was ready, he was soaked in sweat, fists clenched, jaw so tight it was giving him a headache.

Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, hardly dared to look into the mirror she held ready.

She had shaved almost all of his dark black curls and dyed the rest of his stubbly hair _blond_.

 

He looked defaced!

 

He began to feel sick.

 

Yes, he knew he was vain, always so concerned with his appearance.

Had _John_ not numerous times complained about his cool looks? He had liked it. He had felt flattered when _he_ noticed his looks!

 

'No _John_ , not now,' he told himself as he watched his face in the mirror, the way it went soft with his thoughts.

'By the way, _he_ wouldn't even recognise you now, even if you jumped on _him_ ,' he couldn't help thinking.

 

"What else?" he asked, in what he hoped was a cold voice.

It was meant to distract his brother, whose inquisitive look seemed to bore through him. It wouldn't work...

 

They gave him a bog-standard suit, glasses, and a tie of all things!

Mycroft knew that he never wore ties!

This was deliberate torture and mortification. He hated him for this!

 

Without a word he dashed to the bathroom, slamming the door as hard as he possibly could.

 

He had to take several deep breaths. 

'Calm down!' he told himself. ' He enjoys a spectacle.'

 

Disgusted, he changed into his new clothes, took on his new identity.

 

'Something like this must come from a brother who is supposed to be the British government, after all...' he thought, gnashing his teeth in anger.

 

**Night**

 

There was nothing much left to say.

"Thank you," when Mycroft handed him his identity papers.

 

He was now one Mr Sigerson from Norway, for as long as it would take to bring down the rest of Moriarty's web.

Rather sooner than later, he hoped.

 

He missed his hair, and he missed his old life already.

 

He would have enjoyed the thrill of the adventure only two years ago, he was certain.

He would now too, he suddenly realised, if he didn't feel so lost.

The life he had led in the last year and a half had rubbed off on him.

 

He had asked his brother before, he remembered all of a sudden.

He wondered now if there was something wrong with him...

 

When had he become so sentimental? So pathetically weak?

 

He had left London before. After all, this was only a city, it would exist forever, and he would return someday, ready to explore its changes, absorbing even the tiniest alteration like a dried-out sponge, adding every new detail to his mind palace.

Just streets and buildings and struggling lives.

Data that would not get lost.

 

In the meantime he would explore the world of crime. This should leave him buzzing with anticipation!

 

'Couldn't be for the work,' he thought. His latest mission was so much more thrilling than the immature stuff Lestrade troubled him with, most of the time. And to never see the vacant faces of Sally Donovan, or heaven forbid - how could he now of all times waste a thought on him: Anderson - would be an unquestionable relief!

But they had only been on the fringes. They had no deeper influence on his life whatsoever. He would in fact be better off without them.

 

Lestrade, ...was his first name really Greg? How could he have missed that one?

Well, Lestrade had been a sport, at times...

 

And what about his fondness for Mrs Hudson?

She was his landlady, not his housekeeper! How often had she scolded him...? He didn't actually like being scolded, it made him feel... smallish?

And Mrs Hudson was fine, now! With danger averted, he shouldn't waste another thought on her. She was not his Mummy!

 

But all the same, she was the one who made 221B Baker Street feel like home.

Aside from other things, ...like his skull, his violin, ... his flatmate, all placid, caring, inspiring...

 

He missed _John._

 

"I told you that caring was not an advantage, before." Mycroft interrupted his train of thought. Reading him, as ever...

 

"We would not be here in the first place if you hadn't cared so much."

 

He did not shout back in anger.

Instead he almost smiled.

 

Mycroft had never asked what exactly had happened on that rooftop.

Or why, in the end, he had needed to come to him for help.

Perhaps he thought he knew enough.

Sherlock had never explained.

 

"You care," he quietly replied, "or how else would you know that it isn't?"

 

For once his older brother was silent; embarrassed?

 

"We shall stay in contact and you will inform me about your progress," Mycroft finally managed to say.

 

"And you will keep an eye on _him_."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

Sherlock knew exactly what he was waiting for: 'Where are your manners, little brother?' he could actually hear Mycroft thinking.

Lucky he didn't do it out loud, the arrogant bugger!

 

"Please!" snarled.

 

Again Sherlock had to ask his brother for help, but this time it almost felt a bit good, because he did it for _John_.

 

He could leave now, because he would be told when he needed to come back.

 

**Weeks. Months. Years.**

 

Without another word he turned and left.

 

When he stepped out of the main entrance for the first time in weeks, he felt lighter. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and then once again he was on the chase.

 

It was different this time.

 

For the first time in what seemed a lifetime, he was on his own again.

He knew he had to be careful, but he had every reason to behave himself this time.

He did not want to die again any time soon.

His future seemed more important than ever.

 

He had to return.

 

He wanted _John..._ to forgive him.

He wanted _John..._

**Author's Note:**

> For quotations I used Ariane DeVere's excellent [Sherlock transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html).


End file.
